


Enclosure

by Asidian



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Anal Play, Chastity Device, Cock Tease, Community: norsekink, F/M, Femdom, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Prompt Fic, Punishment, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 10:21:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a cruel apparatus, this means of entrapment. </p><p>	It seems all one sheet of metal when closed, silver in hue, and it reaches nearly to Loki's navel, fits tight between his legs. There is no space between its hard curve and the softness of flesh, no possibility of slipping in a finger nor something narrower. The god of mischief knows, for he has tried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enclosure

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: Written for norsekink- the prompt was "Loki has gotten into some sort of trouble, either mischievous or more serious, and Odin decides to punish him. This time, the punishment takes the form of enforced chastity; Loki is fitted with a chastity belt until Odin decides he's suffered enough, and Odin is kind of a bastard."
> 
> Heads up for noncon, since the chastity and subsequent teasing isn't by choice.

 It is a cruel apparatus, this means of entrapment.

It seems all one sheet of metal when closed, silver in hue, and it reaches nearly to Loki's navel, fits tight between his legs. There is no space between its hard curve and the softness of flesh, no possibility of slipping in a finger nor something narrower. The god of mischief knows, for he has tried.

When he wishes to relieve himself, the waste passes through by means of the magic that governs the device. When he bathes, the soap and water do the same. But hands the contraption keeps at bay, and sensation of all kinds. It holds space enough for him to grow hard, however- and he often is, these days, full length and aching, unable to tend to the problem.

Loki wears his punishment beneath his smallclothes, and for all his intelligence, all his cunning schemes, he has not the power to remove it. This is the return he has reaped for the ill advise that nearly saw fair Freyja traded away to a lustful commoner; this is his sentence, as though being taken by a horse and giving birth after solving the conundrum had not been suffering enough. The All-father has decreed that he will wear it for as long as Freyja was kept in unknowing fear, for as long as the mason meant to rebuild Asgard's walls had been at work. The man had been granted a season, and so a season the silver apparatus will remain clasped around Loki's loins. He has only yet worn it a month.

Only a month- and yet already he has begun to feel its torment. The notion that more than half his sentence has yet to be served presses down upon him when he catches sight of his brother bare and damp after bathing. It haunts him when foolish Thor wishes to steal only one kiss and fails to realize how difficult it has become to stop at that. It drives him mad with need when he wakes at night from some half-remembered dream of Thor's cock lodged sweetly within him, hand wrapped round his length as they lie entangled in bed.

Loki Silvertongue, ever in control, ever more inclined to careful reasoning and considering approaches, has begun to feel as though the heat that nestles low within his abdomen has dominion over him. He feels that it will drive him mad by degrees. He feels that it has already begun.

But on occasion, in accordance with the terms of his punishment, the device is removed.

It is Sif that holds the key: Sif with her maidens' hands rough with the handling of weaponry, Sif who has long held a grudge over the prank that left her hair black as onyx. She comes once every several days- instructs him to lie upon his bed so that she may fasten his wrists and ankles securely to the posts. Thrice he has disobeyed, and thrice she sought Loki out while he slept and tied him without permission.

She made him suffer long for failing to obey- and so he does not resist, now, when she asks him. He goes along, and he gives her what she requests, and he plans what mischief he will unleash upon her when at last his punishment has ended.

The restraints she uses to bind him are enchanted, as well, he thinks- for he can never find his way from them, even with the aid of spells. The thought that perhaps Sif has been granted them along with the key has occurred to Loki more than once. He does not like to think on it.

When she slots the key into the lock, he refuses to watch, turning his gaze deliberately as the upper plate is drawn away. Frequently, as is the case today, he is hard already, thick with anticipation. And when she takes him in hand, he shudders up into it, body taught as the strings of a lute, the head of his cock slick with moisture.

“Tis a pity,” says Sif as she strokes him, words low with mock regret. “If my hands were bigger, you might close your eyes and pretend me to be the sort you prefer.”

Loki keeps still as she works at him, forces his hips not to rock into the touch as they desire. He slits his eyes open to watch her face- weighs the words to gauge whether she speaks of what he does with Thor, sequestered in their chambers. “You know nothing of what I prefer,” he tells her at last, and his voice is remarkably even.

“Don't I?” Her hand slows further, then releases him altogether. When the touch returns, it is a single pressure point, the pad of a finger on the ridge just below the head of his cock, and Loki jolts as though struck by his brother's lightning. She leans down upon his hips to keep him still- presses hard and begins to draw steady, purposeful little circles. “I know you favor _this_. I know if not for your pride, you would claw the sheets even now and make demands for more.”

She is right, and the knowledge galls him; he presses his teeth tight together and sets his jaw, trying hard to ignore the maddening assault. It is too much and not enough all at once; it has stoked the flames in his loins to a roaring bonfire, and he struggles to keep it from his face, to prove to her that he is unaffected. “To what end?” he asks, and what was meant to be a careless laugh comes across much breathier than intended. “You'll not give it to me.”

“Even now,” the swordsmaiden murmurs, “you try to be the clever one.” She allows the finger to trail up from its spot to dally about the hole at the very tip- smears the clear fluid that has gathered. There is an embarrassing amount, enough to give away his excitement despite his attempts at keeping up appearances.

“Even now,” Loki corrects her archly, “I _am_ the clever one.” But the retort is ruined when she slides the finger back down to the spot on the ridge and he arches into it, unable to stop himself.

“I know something else of what you prefer,” Sif tells him, and does not relent in the frustrating rub, rub, rub that makes him want to shriek to the sky. When she leans in closer so that the other hand might join the first, angling not for his manhood but the cleft of his ass, Loki freezes. Never before has she touched him there; never before has any but his brother touched him there. “You enjoy the company of men, do you not? And if I lack the appropriate endowments... well. Alternative arrangements can be made.”

He twitches beneath the finger that still works at his length, desperately wanting, and the smile she gives him at the reaction shows teeth. The hand near his buttocks withdraws- reaches for the pouch that hangs from her belt. There is a moment of mercy when she needs both hands to unfasten it, and he knows a brief reprieve from her insistent touches, but no sooner has she freed the bottle of oil and removed its lid than the finger is back in place, frustrating, agonizing bliss.

The other she slides into the bottle of oil, removes it glistening and slick.

He knows what is coming before she has the digit in place, but still it does not prepare him. It has been since before this imprisonment that aught has entered him, and he has needed it- has dreamed it- has yearned for it. Too many nights, his brother has pressed him up against the wall, the promised single kiss becoming the first of many as control slowly ebbs away. Too many nights, he has ended entangled in Thor's sheets, working himself up with no chance of finding release.

The feel of Sif's finger sliding into him is delicious warmth and glorious friction; he takes a sharp breath in through his nose and scarcely bites back a noise of pleasure. Her other hand has not ceased its rubbing, and the combination of the two has worked him to a fever pitch. Loki is nearing the edge already, though it shames him to be driven there so easily. He shudders despite himself, and his toes curl against the fine silk of the sheets.

She slides the finger within as far as it will go, then eases it out once more. His hands, restrained above his head, open and close uselessly against the air. He is shaking with the nearness of his release; his mind buzzes with desire. Just as he crests the final ridge, just as he feels he can bear no more, she stops- removes the finger from his cock and allows him to lie still a moment, panting and trembling. His completion hovers just beyond his grasp.

Sif caresses him as she waits for him to calm- his ribs, his sides, his chest, his hips. It maintains his arousal even as it allows him to recede from the edge, and when at last he is not quite so near, when at last the lightest brush of a fingertip will not finish him, she slicks her finger with oil again and works it inside him once more.

This time, she does not touch his cock; this time, perhaps, she wishes to see how far she can drive him with this action alone.

It is small, Sif's finger- smaller than Thor's. It is not _enough_ , and the pace she sets is far too slow, a steady glide in and out, but already he is stiff and dripping. He struggles not to attempt to speed her, struggles not to rock into the touch, but when she removes her hand and wets a second finger, when she slides that in beside the first, he nearly loses his resolve.

She curls her fingers within him and finds the spot that his brother's thrusts hit perfectly on the nights they spend tangled in one another's arms. And then, despite his pride, despite all efforts to the contrary, a noise finally escapes him, low and wanting. His body has drawn taught at the touch, and Sif smiles down at him- curls her fingers again and laughs quietly as his hips jerk up in response, like puppets pulled by the strings that guide them.

One more crook of those slender fingers and Loki is on the edge again, every nerve in his body hyper-aware, every muscle in his thighs straining in anticipation of release. But instead Sif is easing her fingers out once more so that he can calm himself for another round.

“Is that all?” she remarks, and watches his cock drip a steady stream of precome onto his stomach. “Soon I'll have to do naught but look at you.”

“You flatter yourself,” Loki tells her, voice not quite so steady this time. “If you wish to win me on appearance, I'm afraid your wait will be longer than you bargained for.” He offers her a smile that has a sharpness to the edge, speaks the words even as he realizes it is unwise to goad her. “I prefer fair hair. And alas, this new shade suits you not at all. ”

“You will learn to regret that clever tongue of yours,” Sif promises sweetly- and as she begins again, he suspects that she says true.


End file.
